


Biscuits and Tea

by dozmuffinxc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (Possible) Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 20:37:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6209203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dozmuffinxc/pseuds/dozmuffinxc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John has a terrible day at the clinic and Sherlock is uncharacteristically thoughtful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Biscuits and Tea

John slumps heavily into his armchair, not even stopping to take off his coat. The chill of a thick London fog clings to his skin and burrows deep into his muscles, twisting uncomfortably around the old bullet wound in his shoulder. He knows he should change into a dry jumper, but he doesn’t have the energy. He’s hours late and he expects Sherlock to interrogate him at any moment, but for the time being, the flat is quiet and John isn’t sure whether to be glad or to regret the time for uninterrupted thought.

It had been a clinic day. Those aren’t usually so trying: the most exciting thing he sees on a regular basis is a particularly vicious bout of the flu or a broken arm. Today, though...

The little boy had been brought in by his sister, a girl barely 16 with a voice like a whisper as she explained that her “bruvver’s sick. Fink he might have a cold.” 

No doubt he did, but it wasn’t his runny nose that had caught John’s attention most: the bruises poking out from the shadows of his dirty sleeves and the ghost of an old cigarette burn on his cheek that almost ( _almost_ ) passed as a birthmark did that quite effectively. Sarah had spent the rest of the afternoon on the phone with child services as John had cleaned the boy up and distracted the sister with soda from the vending machine in the staff lounge.

It takes a moment for John to realize that he is no longer alone in the flat. It’s still quiet, but he can hear a faint rustling from the kitchen, and he wonders whether Mrs. Hudson has slipped in while he was lost in his own dark thoughts. He pinches the bridge of his nose, fighting off a headache. He wonders blearily whether they still have a bottle of paracetamol in the cabinet or whether Sherlock has used up all of the pills for one of his experiments. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

The high, piercing squeal of the tea kettle makes him jump and does nothing to help his headache. To his relief, it’s silenced quickly, and he supposes he ought to get up and offer to help Mrs. Hudson with the tea things since she’s being so obliging, but he can’t seem to summon up the energy it takes to shift himself from his chair. 

“You’ll catch a chill in that jacket.”

John jumps a little, clutching at the arms of the chair. He must have dozed off for a moment, and the last voice he expected to hear was Sherlock’s. He doesn’t turn around; he doesn’t need Sherlock reading his day in the lines of his face, not right now.

“Did Mrs. Hudson leave?” John asks, his voice embarrassingly thick. He hadn’t realized how tired he was, but now he feels like he could curl up in bed and sleep for days.

“Mrs. Hudson? She’s away.”

“At her sister’s,” John remembers, feeling like an idiot. It’s usually Sherlock who forgets these things.

He rubs at his eyes, and when he pulls his fists away, Sherlock is setting a tea tray down in front of him. John does a double-take, practically gaping at the steaming mug of tea (just a splash of milk, no sugar, exactly how he likes it) and the plate of chocolate biscuits arranged in a neat pyramid. He knows for a fact that there were no biscuits in the cupboard this morning; he ate the last one this morning in lieu of breakfast as he shrugged his coat on and cursed his way out the front door half an hour late for his first shift.

“This is…” John struggles for the words, torn between suspicion and gratitude,”…nice.”

He expects a scathing look, but Sherlock doesn’t even make eye contact. Instead of settling down in his own chair, Sherlock retreats back to the kitchen and his microscope and John knows better than to interrupt him in the middle of an experiment.

Reaching for the mug, John gives it a tentative sniff. It wouldn’t be the first time Sherlock has slipped something into his drink. Generous gestures like this aren’t usually without cause, and John thinks he’s justified in being suspicious. Nevertheless, he’s tired and cold and a good cuppa is exactly what he wants right now, so he takes a gulp and is pleasantly surprised to find not the cheap, builder’s tea he keeps in stock but a rich, malty Assam that impresses even his unrefined palate.

As the warm tea pools in his stomach, realization hits him: Sherlock went to the shop. He must have: this tea wasn’t in the kitchen this morning, and the biscuits certainly didn’t magically appear in the pantry. Normally, he wouldn’t hesitate to attribute the gesture to Mrs. Hudson, but she’s away at her sister’s and if Sherlock didn’t go, then who did? 

And all at once, it sinks in: Sherlock _knows._ His shift, the little boy’s bruises and burns, the girl’s sunken eyes and trembling lips as the police explained why they had come, he knows it all, and John will be damned if he can tell how, but it’s true all the same. And this – the tea, the biscuits, the quiet – is Sherlock’s way of expressing… if not sympathy, then perhaps understanding. John has seen Sherlock’s face when Lestrade brings them cases involving children, and he knows that despite his cold façade, Sherlock has a heart that feels just like anyone else’s – more so, perhaps, because Sherlock has never done anything by fractions, and he curses himself for ever allowing himself to think otherwise.

He finishes his tea and nibbles at the biscuits, but he really doesn’t have much of an appetite. Taking up the tray, he carries the used tea things into the kitchen where he finds Sherlock bent over the microscope, eyes narrowed on his work, adjusting a dial on the side of the instrument. He looks up as John sets the tray down beside the sink, and there’s concern in his gaze. John wants desperately to speak, to put Sherlock’s mind at ease, but a lump has found its way inconveniently into his throat, and he doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth.

Sherlock pushes the microscope away and walks around the kitchen table. Before John can blink, Sherlock’s hands are on his face, his thumbs stroking his cheekbones, and his lips are on John’s forehead, pressing a gentle kiss right below his hairline. Everything about the gesture is tender and soft, and as he leans into the embrace and breathes in the smell of cologne with its faint, familiar undertones of formaldehyde and starch, John feels safe and comforted and if he never moves from this spot again, it would be too soon.

His body, however, has other ideas. Sherlock has to guide him to the couch, his own limbs too heavy with exhaustion to do much more than shuffle his feet in the general direction of the sitting room. He is vaguely aware of a blanket being tucked around his shoulders, and as he succumbs to sleep, he recognizes the sounds of Bach being played softly across the room.

When he wakes up hours later, it’s late morning and Sherlock is gone, but there’s a note on the coffee table, and when he reads it, he smiles.

“Gone to Yard. Back later. Eat breakfast.”

John laughs out loud. Sherlock reminding _him_ to eat? He must have really been a mess last night. 

Nevertheless, it’s good advice. He walks down the street to the corner café to buy a muffin and a strong coffee, and as he leaves the shop, his cell phone pings to alert him to an incoming text.

Lestrade an idiot. Case simple. Home soon. –SH

Home.

And John realizes that that is exactly where he wants to be at this moment. Home. As he turns the key in the door of 221B, he catches a blurry reflection of himself in the brass knocker.

He’s smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me in the middle of the school day and just begged to be written, and as I am a sucker for angst and fluff, I happily obliged. I'm sure it's been done a million times, but count this as a million and one. Anything for my boys to be happy in 221B with their tea and their unspoken affection and soft little kisses. YOU'RE KILLING ME, MOFTISS!!


End file.
